


Anamnesis

by Medusa (MyOhMandy)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Repressed Memories, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:25:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4548456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOhMandy/pseuds/Medusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a year after the events of Digestivo, Will Graham is trying to move on. Instead, after an interview with Freddie Lounds for the anniversary of Hannibal's capture, he finds himself sleepwalking, recovering memories, and waking up in the snow.<br/>There is no dub or non-con in this work.<br/>The rating is subject to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anamnesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Hannibal's surrender, Will has finally begun to feel a sense of relief. He finds comfort in mundanity, refusing to think on people, or events, that plagued him. That is, until the anniversary rolls around.

**The Surrender**

"I want you to know exactly where I am.” He turned to Will so slowly that for a moment, Jack thought Hannibal was talking to him. “And where you can always find me.” Their eyes met; Will’s face filled with confusion, arms hanging uselessly by his sides. Surprise dripped down him over him like a bucket of cold slime. “Do you know what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object?” They stared at each other for a long moment. _You always have to have the last word, don't you_? Jack turned to look at Will, disgust mixed relief on his face. _You should’ve killed him_. Will went inside without a word, anger pounding in his chest.

“Cuff him. Put him in my car,”

Will threw himself into one of the wooden chairs by his small square dining table, resting his head on the chilled wood. _I ought to light up the fireplace_ , he thought absently.

He had hoped that banishing Hannibal might finally be grant him the ability to sleep clearly again. And for once, he could lay down and feel the tension tightening his muscles melt into the bed. The silence of the house was like music, and when he closed his eyes, he saw only darkness. No wendigo, no blood, no Hannibal. He walked to his bed, feet creaking on the floorboards in a way that pleased him so much he paced around for five minutes, listening to the  _creeeeek, creeek, creeeeek_ before he flopped onto the bed, landing on his back with a soft  _ploft_ ing sound. He felt a smile stealing across his face. It would take him time to win his mind back, but there was something special, something unspoken about the comfort of existing fearlessly in this moment, even on the edge of sleep.

 _Hannibal is going to prison_! and _Hannibal is going to prison_. Death wasn't coming to his doorstep--at least, not today. Wasn't coming to Alana's, Margot's, Jack's--the Chesapeake Ripper is going to prison!

He felt more alone than he had in over a year; this was both exhilarating and terrifying. He couldn't stay angry--Hannibal wasn't going to kill anyone, at least, not anytime soon. Will could sleep, breathe, eat in peace.

“I’m free.” he said, needing to hear the words out loud; they came out in a strangled sob. “I’m free.”

* * *

**The Aftermath**

The following week passed in a fog. Despite his slightly manic exhilaration, he had a headache when he woke each morning, the  wound on his head swollen pink, the incisions on the side of his face, courtesy of Cordell and Mason Verger had a similiar look. He winced when he saw them in the mirror. He'd avoided it for the most part since coming home, hadn't showered, or packed, or done much of anything but occasionally pick at a meal and pace around the house. He had slept well, but was having an odd time adjusting to his new freedom. _Which is fine_ , he reminded himself.  _You have all the time in the world._  When he stood in front of the mirror, clothes lying in a heap on the bathroom floor, he paused, eyes closed, in front of the mirror for ten minutes before he dained to look. 

The wound on his head, he realized immediately, was infected, and accounted for part of his sour smell. The wounds on the side of his face were not much better, and the ones he'd gotten prior to his reaching Hannibal in Florence were healing poorly, but without infection. He felt lightheaded and sick, and he had to bite down on a washcloth in the shower when he went to clean the deep cut on his forehead, leaning against the shower walls and groaning. He pulled on a pair of boxers after he dried off and then went to his medical cabinet which, thanks to his habit of picking up strays (injured or not), was well stocked. He wrapped a bandage on his head and then carefully pulled a black knitted cap on over it. He ate watery oatmeal with a newfound hunger and then got dressed. He needed to buy groceries, not to mention dog food, before he went to the animal hotel to pick them up.

He had gotten as many of them adopted as he could before he left to Europe, and so for most of them, there would be no return drive home. Winston, however, and a sweet, 6-year-old beagle named Sadie, he left at the nearest dog kennel in Sterling, Virginia. It was 30 miles out from his house, and he cursed nervously when he climbed into his car, keys unturned in the ignition. He checked underneath the car for chewed hoses, under the hood for sheltering animals, and the tire pressure and then climbed back into the car and turned the keys hopefully. His car came to life without a gentle studder and then started up, and Will turned the heat on and headed to Sterling. His head throbbed lightly and his body felt odd behind the wheel after being away for so long. He got to the kennel at 3:00pm, parking as close to the building as he could to avoid the cold. He'd stopped at a foodmart on the way there, and he moved the bags to trunk before he went inside.

"Hello sir, can I help you?" The receptionist was a twenty-something year-old, dressed in a blue polo with Old City Animal Resort in black writing on the left breast below a nametag that read Andy. He had a professional smile on his face, and had politely looked up from the keyboard as soon as Will had walked into the building.

"Yes, my name is Will Graham, I checked two dogs--Winston and Sadie?--in here about a month ago, and I'm here to pick them up." He saw the receptionist's expression change, if only minutely. when he heard the name, saw something like a light turning on behind his eyes and _oh!_  of recognition before he could hide it.

"Alright, Mr. Graham, let's find your companions in the system so I can print out the checkout form and have them brought to you while you get it filled out. I will need to see your ID." He reached to a stack of empty clipboards and, after a moment of typing paused. frowning. Will was reaching for his wallet.

"Well, Mr. Graham, it looks like your dogs were actually checked out earlier this week."

"W-wait, what? By whom?" his hand faltered and he dropped the wallet. “When?” Behind the counter, the receptionist, Andy who was still frowning paused, typing quickly.

“It looks like a miss Alana Bloom checked out your animals...wednesday!” Will had to look at his phone to see what today was--friday. “And her named is on the approved pick up list.” He crossed his arms on his desk and an apologetic smile appeared. “Sorry about the confusion, we usually assume that the other people listed are partners or close family. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Will sighed. “No, thank you.” He called her on the way to his car, hands awkward through his gloves. “Hey...uhm, Alana, it’s me,” he said to the voicemail. “The resort told me you picked up the dogs?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Call me.”

 

She showed up the next morning, with no phone call and an apologetic smile. He had no dogs to warn him of the approaching visitors, and he found himself once again, surprised in a t-shirt and boxers at the door.

“Hi Will,” she said, and the way her eyebrows moved together with veiled worry. He could see Margot sitting in the passenger seat of her car, Sadie on her lap and Winston sitting proudly in the backseat. “How are you?”

He was glad he had showered the day before, his clothes were relatively fresh. He hadn’t brushed his teeth his but his hair wasn’t any messier then she was used to. His head still throbbed, and he caught her looking at the bandage and he flinched. He left the door open and went to pull some trousers on.

“I’m good.” he said, and it was true. “I feel...lighter.” though he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that it felt odd to see her now. He didn’t know how he felt about it.

“Have you seen a doctor about your head?”

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his pants on. “I’m fine, Alana, I can manage. How were the dogs?”

“They were good. I think Margot’s become fond of Sadie. Winston..is Winston. Always waiting to come home, but Margot lives too far for him to try.” She glanced out the window at the car. “You should let me look at that.”

He opened his mouth to object and then stopped when she went over to him anyways, combing his hair out of the way and peeling off the bandage, her hands light but firm. She made a face. “You need antibiotics for this. Soon, Will. A thing like this will go from bad wound to sepsis before you know it’s happening.” he sighed again, but didn’t move out of her grasp. The closeness felt clinical, and wasn’t uncomfortable. She straightened up and moved to the kitchen, opening cabinets and peaking inside of them.

“Are you going to invite Margot in?” he asked. “It’s not like she’s never been over before.” he said, getting off the bed and pointing to the cabinet with the medical supplies.

“I know,” she says easily. “I wanted to give us some time to talk first. The resort called me and told me you hadn’t picked them up yet, and I got a little worried. They said your phone was disconnected.” This took him by surprise; he hadn’t checked the mail since he left, and he’d meant to pay the bills in advance before he left, but it had all happened much more quickly than he’d expected and he must’ve forgotten the phone bill. He’d tested the boat, checked the dogs in the resort, and left. He’d only left the house to pick up his car and get groceries, the day before.

“Oh. I forgot.” he said honestly.

“You didn’t answer your cell, either. I was beginning to wonder if you’d left town,” her voice was light, but reproachful, her eyebrows raising.

“My cell phone...” he paused, trying to remember. “Is probably still somewhere in the apartment Hannibal where Hannibal tried to saw my skull open,” he rubbed his hand over his chin as he said it, speaking past his it, his forehead wrinkling again and not looking at her. He didn’t want to talk about Europe.

At that moment the screen door opened and Sadie and Winston burst in, pushing the front door open with Margot following. She glanced at their faces, spotting the infected wound and anxious look on Will’s face, and then glanced to Alana, who was pulling bandages out of the cabinet, setting them next to the first aid-kit on the counter. Saide and Winston went straight to Will, neither of them jumping but both wagging their tail excitedly and whining earnestly in front of him. He smiled and crouched down, wrapping his arms around Winston and then Sadie, eyes watering from more than just pain from his head.

“Jesus, Will,” she said without preamble. “you need to go to the hospital.” She went over to the table and pulled out a chair, throwing herself down in it.

“You better go sit at the table too, Will,” Alana said coolly, and he sighed.

His head was throbbing worse than ever, tears streaming down his face, right hand was white from clenching down on the chair. Margot sat across the table the entire time, watching with a grimace on her face and petting Sadie, but saying nothing. Alana washed her hands and Will leaned his head back against the wall, teeth clenched tightly and eyes shut--the pain made the room spin and he didn’t want to risk throwing up. He could hear Margot and Alana talking through the fog of pain. The only thing he was aware of other than the pain in his face--she had cleaned the incisions from Cordell as well--was Winston’s head resting on his leg. He leaned there for what felt like hours, taking deep breaths as the pain lessened.

“You’ll still need to go to the hospital,” Alana insisted through the fog, and he felt someone pressing ice gingerly to his forehead with the muffled sound of a door closing. He reached up and to take it, and was surprised to see Margot standing in front of him. She gave him half a smile in place of a shrug.

“She’s right, you know.” Margot said, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows, speaking in her signature matter-of-fact tone. “Unless you’d prefer to let that stew and you know, end up fighting a blood infection.”

“I haven’t had a ton of luck with doctors.” he replied dryly.

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” she went to sit down across from him again and he realized Alana had gone to the bathroom. “That’s as lucky as we’re allowed to get.”

"I feel don’t lucky." he scoffed. “I survived because he let me survive. And he’s in custody because he wanted to be in custody. I’m free because I want to be free. I have my freedom, my dogs, and you have Alana.” She nodded in concurrence.

“I hope it’s enough.” They looked at each other, one survivor to another.

“I’ll let you know.”

 

Alana and Margot left an hour later with Sadie in the backseat. “Margot took a shining to her,” Alana had said apologetically. “If you were still looking to relocate her.” He looked at Margot who, just like him, had been unwittingly pulled into Hannibal’s web, already having been trapped in her brother’s. He trusted her, and he let Sadie go with them.

He went to the hospital the next day, and had a hell of a time explaining his injuries. In the end, he had to call Jack Crawford and wait for him to show up and corroborate his story. Jack had given him a slightly disapproving look and he earned a short lecture about taking care of himself (from Jack and the doctors), with he batted off with curt, clipped replies before eventually assuring Jack that, really, he was doing better. Jack left the hospital apologetic but stubbornly reproachful. He told Will to call him if he needed anything else, and Will had dryly replied that he’d be sure to give him a call the next time someone tried to kill him.

* * *

**The Time Skip**

 

All in all, the following year was not the worst of Will’s life. He had taken a job at the nearby food mart, Food Fair, five miles from his house. It didn’t pay terribly well, but he mostly unloaded boxes and organized the stuff in the back; he didn’t have to worry about dealing with people much. It had meant to be temporary, a reason to leave the house multiple times a week, but he had grown fond of it. This way, he spent enough time out of his house to avoid cabin fever, and got the social food he needed from occasional conversations with coworkers.

He had picked up a few more dogs in the past year, but hadn’t kept any of them for long, using adoption events as another reason to leave the house, especially on rougher days. Winston, of course, remained by his side. He emailed with a few people from the FBI occasionally, mostly out of habit. The occasional but sincere “How are you, Will?” from Jack, with nothing of the goings on in the agency was, admittedly, appreciated. He had gotten two cards in the mail for his birthday, one from Alana, and one from Hannibal. He opened Alana’s, and put Hannibal’s in a drawer. Freddie, strange to admit, was also often an exchanger of emails. For the first six months they had been questions about Hannibal, which he had answered curtly enough. He did not, however, ever deign to answer those about the events following her false death. She asked frequently for interviews, and he ignored each of them, replying only that he didn’t take kindly to trespassers, and would expect her to know better by now. Her book on the Lecter case, a compilation of news stories (both from The Tatler and from other sources), evidence from the crimes scenes, unpublished scraps from her investigations and “in depth profiles” on those of them involved in the black dinner at Hannibal’s home, was set to come out on the anniversary of Hannibal’s surrender, which was in about two weeks. As a result, she was pestering him more of late, and had taken to calling his home number so often that he frequently disconnected it just to spite her. He used his home phone only to talk to the store, and he screened any unfamiliar numbers. So it came as a surprise to both Freddie and himself when picked up the phone after her fourth call and a month of unanswered emails.

“What do you want, Freddie?”

“Will Graham? Is that actually you? I was beginning to you’d killed yourself.”

“What do you want Freddie?”

“An interview. I’m not going to ask about Europe--or, well, the point isn’t to ask about Europe.”

He sighed. “I don’t want to talk to you, Freddie.”

“His court date is coming up.”

“I know, Freddie."

"I figured. There was no way you’d get away without a subpoena.”

“Freddie--”

“He’s pleading insanity.”

“H-he’s what?”

“He’s pleading insanity, and Alana and Chilton are testifying for the defense. Just let me come by, one interview--for now. You can work with me on the spin, or you can wait until it’s in print. Which do you prefer?”

“Freddie, Give me one good reason--”

“Other than the fact that you promised me your exclusive rights? And that I’ve been more than willing to piece together the bits you leave out instead of hounding you.”

“You don’t consider this hounding?”

“Listen: I just need one interview for now, about the court case, an update on your life, blah blah blah _and_ you owe me.” she let him process this for a moment. “You can be mad about a lot of things, Graham, but I kept Abigail out of this when we both know I could've blown her story wide open."

She was right. When the first Tattler magazine had been printed, it was immediately following the black dinner. Freddie had banked on the fame her rebirth would bring her, and the first magazine print of _The National Tattler_ , the cover boasting _**SERIAL KILLER HANNIBAL THE CANNIBAL LECTER EVADES POLICE IN BLOODBATH**_ , consisting of sordid details on Freddie’s supposed series of events in the house. The website had a “tell-all” about the pretence surrounding the deaths of herself and Frederick Chilton and full (if distorted) profiles on each of them, boxed by expensive ads and a reminder to _subscribe to The National Tattler today!_ The following printed issues contained “new information” and “updates from inside sources” and, of course, the picture of Will in the hospital, scars, colostomy and all, a humiliation to not only due to the knowledge that this image could easily be bought for 3.99 at your local food mart, but knowing that Freddie had been in his room, had taken those pictures (or worse, come with a photographer and had those photos taken). There had been a quiet understanding between them after Freddie had faked her death, and Will had been able to ice his hostility for a time afterwards, and it had been shattered the day Freddie rose from the dead. The only thing missing from the website, from the multiple issues of _The National Tattler_ and from talk-show interviews was Abigail Hobbs. Described in Freddie’s articles as underage kidnap/murder victim, Freddie had led a stringent campaign against revealing Abigail’s name, claiming that she was a minor at the time of her death, vehemently chastising anyone who attempted to investigate her part in the story. Will had seen an interviews of her, on local and national news channels, beginning as a stylish and passionate journalist, only to turn vicious and critical the moment people talked about “exposing the truth” in relation to Abigail.

“I just think it’s absolutely appalling,” she had said on WBAL TV, when she was asked again about the the Abigail’s involvement. “that in the wake of this tragedy people are so intent on revealing the identity of this young woman. She was a victim, one of many, who lost her life at the hands of a killer who had already taken so many.”

“But you have to understand the oddness of the situation.” the broadcaster had replied. He was in his 40’s, grey hair, grey suit, blue tie. He asked the question with an emotional removal from the situation that made Freddie’s job easier.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: that young woman was lured to Hannibal Lecter’s home for the explicit purpose of being used as a hostage. According to witnesses from that night, the young woman attempted to stop the attack on Alana Bloom, a fellow psychiatrist and Hannibal Lecter’s romantic partner at the time, who had been consulting in the investigation of the murders, whom was pushed out of a window following the attack on FBI agent Jack Crawford.” She had rehearsed and recited the story before without consulting any of the victims about the lie, and none of them spoke out publicly to disagree with her. Pausing, she posed her face sympathetically and affected an almost maternal tone. “After attacking Will Graham, Lecter’s patient and close friend, it is believed she was killed for her heroic attempts to save Dr. Bloom. She has suffered enough for her heroism, and her parents have refused to release her name for privacy reasons.”

“Don’t you think that’s at all strange? By your description, this young woman was a hero. Why wouldn’t her parents want her legacy to be remembered?”

“Honestly, I don’t think it’s my place,” she put her hand over her heart, her eyebrows knitting down and looking away for a moment. “Or anyone else’s to questions the actions of grieving parents.” her response was emotional and clipped, her eyes accusing. “If anything, they deserve our respect and silent admiration for their daughter, whom ever she was. I can only imagine how trying it must be to watch people--” she threw another cold glance at him. “prod so disrespectfully for information they don’t need.”

"Will? Are you there?" she sighed. "Look. Let me drop by tomorrow afternoon. I'll ask some questions, you answer some questions...this book is going to happen one way or another. I did my part."

 

Freddie arrived at three o’clock sharp the following day, though they hadn’t set a time. This, Will decided, was entirely intentional on Freddie’s part; if she arrived early, she could surprise him, if she left him waiting, he’d be anxious and, with a little prodding, might allow a sordid detail to slip.

Winston’s ears perked and he raised his head, a low growl in his throat as her car pulled up.

“It’s okay buddy,” he said, rubbing Winston’s head. He moved to stand up and Winston did the same, moving to the door with his hackles raised. He’d taken more comfort from the presence of his other dogs that Will realized, and he was less at ease without them. Will wondered, suddenly, if the other dogs were having the same problem, and made a mental note to call the adoptees as soon as Freddie left. He had brought his fishing gear out that morning, propping up up against the porch and left his boots, by the door inside to feign productivity, but opened the door before she had to knock.

“Hello, Mr. Graham.” She said, closing the door of her car and straightening her purse on her shoulder. He back nodded stiffly, and Winston looked at her distrustfully. She had on a white faux fur cape coat and black sacks, a tupperware container under her left arm, but he was eyeing her small, eggplant-colored bag, knowing she’d have a tape ready and recording in it. He had one too, in his jacket pocket, lest she attempt to commit any particularly offensive libel. “I brought lunch.”

“No thanks.” he scoffed after letting out a sarcastic laugh. “I don’t see it made, I don’t eat it, unless it’s from a supermarket.”

“I’m a vegetarian, Will.” she replied curtly, stopping at the base of the steps to his porch, left foot on the first stair. “And it’s quiche. You’d be hard pressed to find anything human in a spinach quiche, but if you don’t want it, I’m not gonna cry. Besides, who knows what they put in frozen dinners.” She looked pointedly at Winston, whose hackles were raised, though his growling had subsided. “Where are the rest of your dogs?”

“Adopted.”

“That’s a shame.” She walked straight past the both of them without pause, and slightly startled Will followed her in, Winston staying by his side as he did so. “Let’s get started.”

* * *

He had a pounding headache when she left, and he saw something rotten behind his eyes when he closed them. Talking about Hannibal had somewhat soured his already agitated anxiety. He paced around after she left, the feeling of discontent clipped onto the corner of his heart like a reminder.

He thought about going fishing, but he didn’t. It was too cold to bring Winston out near the ice with him and he didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want Winston to be alone, either. For a brief moment he considered hunting, but the thought brought Abigail’s face to his mind and he had let her go, had abandoned her ghost to search for Hannibal. He hadn’t thought about it all in a long time, and he felt the weight of that now, of her more than anything. If he closed his eyes he could still see her, his vision hazed with pain, as she accepted her death in Hannibal’s arms, tears streaming down her face. She hadn’t put her hand to her throat after, hadn’t tried to stop the bleeding. She had done the same thing when her father attacked her, and, like then, he had fumbled pathetically at her throat, washed over with anguish and utter desperation.

“We couldn’t leave without you.” a voice, echoing in his head.

“You were supposed to leave,” he didn’t even realize he was saying the words out loud. “She could have had a life, she could’ve grown up...”

“Abigail’s fate was predetermined by her natural parents. She was not born to normality, nor was she meant to maturate to it.”

He scoffed. “She had two parents, Hannibal. She had the biology for another future. ”

“Tell me, Will, do you ever think if you hadn’t grown attached to her, that she might have been spared?” in the darkness, behind his eyelids, he thought he saw a figure tilting it’s head. “If you had discovered him sooner, she wouldn’t have died?”

“No, If I had discovered you sooner, she wouldn’t have died.”

“You were blinded with trust, and I worked very hard to blind you. If you throw a frog into boiling water--”

“You didn’t just put me in hot water, Hannibal. You bound me to a chair with handkerchiefs over my eyes, and waited to see me unravel them.” he shook his head, right hand rubbing his chin. “to see if I could escape, and to see if I could acclimate to what I saw. To the water.”

“And you did. We were able to see each other, and we were the same temperature. Our hearts came together.” he could see, in the darkness, the clear image of a dark silhouette coming together.

“Too late for Abigail.”

“In life, we are given a choice, you can either be the sheep, or the wolf. You cannot hide in the lamb’s skin forever. You have to choose.”

“I did choose. I tried to warn you--”

“You tried to send me away, Will. To Europe, to prison, to death.”

“I could have followed--I would have found you.” he sighed, angry, tired, frustrated. “We could--”

“You had every opportunity to confess your duality, and yet you chose not to.”

“If you had been honest with me about her--if you had left, you could have contacted me--I-I would have followed. I would have been there,” His heart was pounding in his chest, and he had clenched his fists so tightly they were pale white. He couldn’t stop seeing her there, was still reaching for her in his head, still trying to stop the bleeding. His eyes were springing water, Hannibal’s gaze was bearing heavy on him.

“Her corruption was bred into her, Will. No matter how much white you add, grey remains grey. The song remains the same.”

“I can live with grey.”

“So you would have her torn between us? If I had anticipated your true colors, I might have known you were underprepared. We must either corrupt her together, or not at all.” but before him, he could see the figure had lost the inky quality that had once haunted his nightmares. Will felt warmth running down his face, but a pained smile pulled at his lips.

“You’ve lost some of your edge.”

“Not lost.” he replied. “My reality has seeped into yours. You’ve borrowed it.”

“There are parts of my reality I might never grasp again,” He snapped back, and he rotated his head shakily, trying to loosen the muscles. “I have you to thank for that.”

“Your ability to repress your nature exceeds me.” he crossed his legs, hands folded in his lap, and Will realized that he was holding the journal in them “Where we were once inseparable, we are now distinct. Your mind shows a pattern of selective memory keeping.”

“I wish I would forget you.”

“Our colors have mixed,” Hannibal said, shadows breeding around him, behind him and under him, filling the space that had once been Hannibal’s office, now resembling only a void. "You might successfully exile me from your mind palace for now," the shadows stretched over Hannibal's shoulders, vector like at first and then becoming hands--Abigail's hands, and he could see her face, dimly, as the shadows enveloped the two of them. He hadn't seen Abigail here since before he'd entered the catacombs, and his heart tugged at his chest. "but your family will always be a part of you, and you a part of us." but they were disappearing. And in spite of himself, Will knew that what Hannibal said was true, and as they disappeared, he felt a part of him disappear with them, and then it was just him, sitting alone at the measly little table in his kitchen.

 

 


End file.
